


Picking Up the Pieces

by LunaStellaCat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-09 11:17:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10410960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaStellaCat/pseuds/LunaStellaCat
Summary: Alastor "Mad-Eye" has one constant as his life falls apart.





	1. Chapter 1

Alastor Moody, Auror of five years, needed a female partner. Female Aurors were scarce, so he was forced to consider recruits that had just completed training and were ready to be assigned their first official cases. He’d examined the files of the three potential partners and chosen James, a blonde who was tall and strong, even though she was engaged and might already have a foot out the door. There was something about her-maybe her big nose-that made him think she wouldn’t shake like a leaf or talk too much. 

When the recruits filed into the Ministry canteen for a celebratory breakfast, he followed and cut in front of James. He placed two plates onto a tray and loaded them up with this and that. The girl, probably thinking she was getting hazed or else was the butt of a joke, followed him without question: a good sign. Once he got to the end of the line, Alastor jerked his head towards her and pointed at the wall. 

Whoever organized this get-together never planned it out too well because there were never enough seats. The woman, James, got the hint, but said she wasn’t hungry. 

“Here.” He handed her the tray anyway. “I did this because I need a favor, and I needed to get your attention.” 

“You could’ve just asked,” she said, helping herself to silverware and digging into the food. So much for not being hungry. She waited. When Alastor said nothing and stood there holding his own plate like a statue, she said, “Use your words.” 

“When I’m ready,” he said, eating his own food. He spread scrambled eggs onto his toast. “What’s your first name, James?”

Not that he planned to use it, but it was information a partner should know. She nibbled her toast and said her name was Lenore. Alastor nodded, wanting to cut through the small talk and get to the point. He’d taken on an assignment without thinking it through. Robards was smart, but he wasn't the sort of person he needed at the moment, and he certainly wouldn’t be flattering in a dress. “I need a wife.” 

“Goodbye.” Lenore scraped her plate and added to the pile of dirty dishes. She walked off. “You’re following me.” 

“Yes.” Alastor stopped when she stopped. When she started walking again, he did, too, careful to stay at least three paces behind. Lenore threw up her hands when she realized he followed her into the Atrium. “I’ve been watching you.” 

“Stop talking.” Horrified and appalled, Lenore glanced around at the people milling around the place. 

What was he missing here? Alastor had never dated when he was in school because he had one goal in mind. He was the only son of John and Diana Moody, Aurors, and he was always going to be an Auror too. It hadn’t been easy, although people probably thought he got a smooth ride in his own qualifications. He hadn't had many friends. His parents had raised him not to trust people because people stabbed each other in the back. Outside of his mother’s ears, and they weren't bad ears as ears went, Alastor thought he passed for all right. 

“You’re clever,” he told James. “You think on your feet because you made it through that obstacle course in seven minutes last night. Who else would have thought of picking up a crossbow? You did.” Alastor nodded when she turned around. When she started walking back towards him, he played all this back through his mind. What had he said right? He needed this for future reference. “You want field experience?” 

“Stop stalking me,” said James. He handed over a file and waited for her to read through it. Although she was relatively new to this, she got it after a quick read. Alastor knew this because he quizzed her and threw nit-picky nonsense at her on purpose. He introduced himself and offered her his bruised hand. 

James said, “I know who you are. When you actually do manage to get a wife, Mr. Moody, which is probably wishful thinking, talk to her.” 

“I don't believe in marriage. I need an Auror partner to act as my wife.” Uncomfortable with her stare, he said, “Lenore is an unusual name. I like it.”

“Thank you,” she said. “My father loves Poe. Poe’s a writer.” 

He smiled when she did a double take as he recited a stanza of “The Raven” from memory. “Didn’t know I knew that, did you?” 

She asked him to recite the whole thing. 

“Yeah, that’s not happening. You want field experience? Yes or no?” 

James hesitated.

“What? You have to get the fiancé’s permission?”

“No. I mean, yes, I’ll be your partner.” 

Alastor nodded. “Let’s go, then.”

“Now?” 

He strode toward the fireplaces tied to the Floo Network. “I’ll explain on the way.”

 

When they turned onto Knockturn Alley and reached the Black Candle, he noticed how nervous she seemed; he couldn’t fault her for it. Hadn’t he been in her shoes five years ago? Granted, given his parents were Aurors, he’d grown up around this chaos, but everyone started somewhere. It wasn’t his job to babysit this girl. But it was his responsibility to get her to trust him. 

Nodding at the landlady, Alastor took off his travelling cloak and draped it over his chair. Rolling his eyes, he realized she stood there, so he went over and held her chair. When he sat back down, he watched a couple nearby dirty tables scrubbing themselves. 

“Order anything you want.” He offered her a menu. 

James said she wasn’t hungry. Alastor, simply to make a point, ordered a sandwich and a house salad. Her stomach growled and betrayed her. 

“Not hungry,” he grumbled, not believing her, ordering some stout and a fizzy drink for the lady when the landlady, a Madam Wren walked by. James ordered the steak and kidney pie. She asked for some chips. “Thank you.” 

Alastor handed over the menus, and Madam Wren returned with their food a little while later. Normally he wouldn’t indulge whilst on the job, and he nursed the stout. Madam Wren seemed to notice when she came to check on them when she made her rounds with the bustling supper crowd. Really, Alastor preferred to be left alone to enjoy his meal in peace. He ordered a gillywater simply to get her to leave them alone. 

“Busybody,” he muttered under his breath. 

“You’re not very friendly,” said James, helping herself to one of the tomato slices laying top of his salad. Alastor blocked her with his fork, but she merely smiled and said, “Darling, we always share food. We are on holiday. Are we not supposed to enjoy ourselves? We share everything.” 

Alastor relaxed his tense shoulders. Of course, a love sick fiancee would know what she was talking about. Or he guessed James knew whatever she was doing. He ate from the other side of the salad dish. They masqueraded as a Mr. and Mrs. Richard Dixon. 

“Order your own.” He didn’t like people jumping into his personal space. 

“Relax, Richard.” She dropped her salad fork, the tomato still on its tongs; it clanged against his plate. He shoved the salad towards her. “I don’t want it, thanks.” 

He took it back and acted a little short with the landlady when she came by to check on them again. 

“You know what? I think we’re going to turn in and call it an early night,” said James, placing her napkin over her plate. She gave the excuse that her husband had a headache. Alastor took the key. 

Madam Wren thanked him for paying. “I have tonic for a pain reliever here somewhere.

“No,” said Alastor shortly. James glared at him as he got up, so he added, acting a little disoriented, “No, thank you, Madam Wren. Good night.” 

Madam Wren looked a little insulted and conjured the small vial just in case, although Alastor had no problems declining. “Well, night, dears.” 

They headed up to the room, and the stuck door really did give him a headache. 

“There.” Alastor opened the door after slamming his shoulder into it. The room, filled with sparse furniture, had a wardrobe, two end tables, a couple mismatched armchairs and a bed. Water stains spotted in the corners of the walls. “Welcome home, James.” 

Before they had arrived here, she’d grabbed a rucksack with the basic necessities. They kept these in stock, though he’d told her to head home if she needed anything special; she needed to pack light. Alastor, always ready to go at a drop of a hat, kept a rucksack in his cubicle. 

She stepped into the bathroom, and he cast simple spells around the perimeter. They weren’t acting as Muggles. When she started screaming bloody murder, Alastor dashed into the bathroom, wand aloft, and nearly tore the bathroom door off its hinges. 

James screamed in the shower when he pulled the shower curtain back. “What the hell? Get out!” 

“Yeah.” 

Alastor cast a hand over his eyes and asked her what was wrong. When she said there was a dead spider in the shower, he rolled his eyes and stepped outside. Didn't she handle spiders in Potions classes? When she came out dressed in a plain dress, he pretended to make the bed. 

“You can get it now,” she said, drying her hair with a towel. As Alastor passed her, he caught the scent of lemons in her hair. “And I’m locking the door.” 

He picked up the dead spider with two fingers and tossed it in the wastebasket by the sink. Crisis averted, he went back into the bedroom, grabbed his rucksack, and unpacked. She’d already done this with her things. When he stepped back into the bedroom, he told her to take the bed. 

“Okay,” said James, not arguing the point. He hadn't expected her to. She sat on the bed, and the bedsprings groaned at the slightest touch. When he cracked a joke about sex being no secret with this bed and these walls, she paled. “I’m not sleeping with you.” 

“Nope. Wouldn’t want to upset that fiancé of yours.” Alastor conjured a lumpy sleeping bag and set up his sleeping spot. He spotted a battered case standing in the corner. “Is that yours?”

“Yes. It’s a violin.” 

She lay on the bed and punched the pillow. They said nothing for a while, and she asked him if she could play to mask the sounds next door. Muffliato Charms would mask sounds they made, but not the noises of others. The candles had been extinguished, but Alastor imagined her beet red face when the lady friend next door moaned in pleasure. When James started to play, she sat on the edge of the bed. 

“When did you start to play that thing?” Alastor understood next to nothing about music, but even with his untrained ears, he knew she played exceptionally well. 

“When I was five,” she said, setting it aside when their neighbors rapped on the wall. Alastor rolled his eyes and waved at her, telling her to play as long as she wished. 

“Five.” He closed his eyes. “Are you a prodigy, James?” 

She wrapped up an upbeat tune and set the instrument aside when things had quieted down. She said no, though the way she said it with a shaky chuckle made him think this was untrue. Alastor didn’t press the matter. As she relit the candle and started reading a cheap paperback , he opened his eyes and stole a glance. It was no wonder she was off the market, he thought, for she had a nice face even with that nose. 

There was a knock on the door. James escaped onto the bathroom and changed into her nightgown, and Alastor, chuckling, went to answer the door. He backtracked, and kicked the sleeping bag under the bed to cover his tracks. Had he forgotten to pay his tab? James had chosen not to have a drink at the bar. 

“Mr. Dixon,” said the old landlady, Madam Wren. She apologized for the late hour and checked the room. Alastor blocked her path and decided against this move because it wasn’t his place; he merely rented it. He tried and failed to act casual. “Where’s your wife?” 

“Oh. She’s …” Alastor hesitated, and then he heard the squeak of bedsprings.

James called for him. He smiled, thinking this ought to be good, and invited the landlady inside. Granted, they posed as dirt poor newlyweds, but they were newlyweds all the same. The landlady shuffled inside nervously, and he realized James was on the wrong side of the bed. The other side was against the wall.

 

“What do you have for me, ma’am?” Alastor took an owl and climbed into the bed as James scooted over. As Madam Wren turned to leave, he felt James’s silk nightgown and whispered in her ear, “Kiss me.” 

James hesitated too long. Alastor pressed his lips against hers and went back for more when their lips parted. The landlady said she'd be downstairs if they needed anything. When Madam Wren said goodnight and closed the door, James kissed him back and played with his hair. Alastor had never done this before, but it somehow felt wonderfully familiar. He cleared his throat and stroked her face. 

“James.” He got to his feet and fumbled around for the sleeping bag. 

“You can’t…” James took a shuddering breath and patted the mattress. “What if she comes back? Hide the sleeping bag.” 

Her clipped tone sounded businesslike. He argued that he’d be able to hear someone coming, but James insisted he get in the bed. After stowing the sleeping bag away again, Alastor laid down next to her. James turned towards the wall. Alastor handed her the paperback, but she said she didn't want it. 

He heard her sniff. 

“Lenore, I’m sorry.” Alastor didn't exactly know why he apologized or used her first name. 

“It’s fine. Go to sleep.” She patted him on the arm and wiped her eyes. 

“Yeah.” 

She fell asleep next to him. Alastor, wondering if he was such a bad kisser, lay awake. Would he be this awful with all women? Did everyone remember their first kiss, or would it not matter after a while? Maybe it wasn't his fault. She was promised to another man. Thinking he could use a nightcap, Alastor got up and pulled on his dressing gown. Alastor almost woke her to tell her he'd be right back, but what was the point? 

 

She was a girl. Lenore James was the only daughter of a literature professor; he’d gathered this from her file. He knew things. Over their three years of training, Auror candidates went through intense training. Although they revealed things in the interview process, the candidates never saw these files again. They basically signed their lives over to the government. 

Alastor had stolen his own file once simply to show the senior Aurors there were holes in their so-called top notch security measures. There was nothing in his he found too surprising. One Auror had referred him as unbalanced whilst another one had questioned his need to retrace his steps and see the scenario from the attacker’s perspective. 

Regardless of what he shared with this girl on assignment, he doubted she’d run back and tell the stories to her people. When he got to the bar, he watched the tables organize themselves in an intricate game of musical chairs. Mops danced across the floors. 

“Long night, Mr. Dixon?” Madam Wren wiped down the bar. When he offered nothing, she offered him a drink. “The wife is sleeping?” 

“Yes,” he said, not really listening as he drummed his fingers on the damp surface of the bar. 

“Reminds me of my sister,” she said, pouring him a shot and handing it over. He tossed it back with thanks, and she offered him another. “Lovely blonde hair and a nice voice. Is she musical?” 

Alastor shook his head. He didn't know whether to give away this detail or not. Deciding this was none of his business either way, he left it alone. 

“My sister sang. Her name was Annabelle. Sound familiar?” 

The second drink stung when it hit the back of his throat; he flipped the glass over. Why should he know that name? “No.” 

“You wouldn’t,” said Madam Wren, cackling again. 

What exactly had either he or she said that was funny? Alastor got the distinct impression that he’d missed something here. He got to his feet and said good night, not wanting to deal with two women tonight, but she insisted he stay for one more. She was a talker, and he and Mr. Dixon were not, so Alastor declined. She probably recycled this story all the time. The usuals and regulars to the Black Candle could probably recite it word for boring word. 

When he turned to say good night, she splashed something in his face. She said the girl’s name as Annabelle Carrow. Thinking it was drink, Alastor went to wipe his face. He’d luckily kept his eyes closed. It started to burn, though, and it seeped through his pores. Screaming, he resisted an urge to claw his eyes out. Pain, excruciating pain, consumed him. He heard footsteps, but he couldn't grab his wand. Footsteps pounded on the staircase. 

The landlady Disapparated. 

James came over to him, still dressed in her sleeping things. She dropped to her knees when she reached him. 

“Alastor,” she said, reaching out to touch him. 

He hissed at her like an angry cat. What the hell was she thinking? If she touched him, she’d be marked, too. The last thing they needed was another Auror down. 

“I had her. I did this.” He despised the tears because they did nothing, absolutely nothing, to ease the pain. He laid back and waited for help. As the minutes passed, Alastor closed his eyes and prayed for death.

 

The body forgot pain because the brain blocked it. He'd heard this before, yet Alastor had never appreciated it much until it worked in his favor. Over the next few days, or perhaps it was longer because he couldn't tell time, he slipped in and out of consciousness. Why fight sleep? One day, though he didn't know whether it was day or night, someone asked after his wife.

Confused, Alastor denied he had any wife. "Who?"

"Me." James held his bandaged hand. The Healer said James, who he called Colleen, had barely left his side. 

"Colleen," Alastor croaked, for he hadn't used his voice in a long time. 

He'd forgotten this was the name she'd chosen. He was Richard Dixon, an alias created and handed down by the senior Aurors. They had him in a private room, and when he asked why, the Healer mentioned it reduced the risk of infection. He'd suffered through a nasty infection already. His face no longer burned, but it itched terribly. 

His parents wouldn't be here because it risked blowing their cover and the entire operation. James asked to be alone. When the Healer insisted they needed cleanse the skin again to get to the healthy layers beneath, Alastor raised one of his bandaged hands and and imagined tapping the outside of an orange with a butter knife.

"Wait. You're actually peeling my skin back?" Alastor heard the fear leak into his voice. He hated it. 

"We have to get through the bad to get to the good," said the Healer, sounding like he'd explained this over and over again to someone else. Alastor said no. The Healer switched to a steelier tone and reminded him of the importance of time. "It's one last treatment, Mr. Dixon." 

"All right. Give us a minute, please. I want a moment with my husband," said James, stronger when the Healer rebuked her. She left. James pulled up a chair, still holding his hand. She kept up the act because the Healer probably stood outside the door. When she reached out to touch him, he screamed so loudly James backed off like a frightened little girl. "I...I'm not leaving you, Richard, because you can't do this alone." 

"Go to hell," he spat. Alastor knew it wasn't her fault, but she could've gone downstairs with him. She could've done something. What did the undercover assignment matter at this point? "Go back to your fiancé and make babies.” 

She wasn't cut out for this, and he'd been stupid to fall for some girl for her looks. James wiped her eyes, though her tears did nothing for him. She got up, swung her pocketbook over her shoulder, and wished him luck as she headed towards the door. Alastor spotted her I.D. badge with its moving picture on the bedside table. He went to grab it without thinking, he forgot his hands were useless, and knocked the thing onto the floor. 

"Colleen." He smiled when he said it, despite the fact that it hurt like hell. He'd spotted it as her middle name on the I.D. badge. "That's not a stretch, Lenore Colleen." 

James marched back over to him, her hand outstretched, thinking he had it before she picked it up. There was a knock on the door and the Healer had returned with reinforcements. Stowing her card back into her bag, she sat back down and crossed her long legs. Her fiancé, Alastor imagined, must consider himself a lucky bastard.

 

"When some idiot pulls me off on a mission at a moment's notice," she said softly, running her fingers through his hair. "What else am I supposed to do?" 

The Healers, busy with gathering their tools, heard none of this. Alastor liked her touch; it calmed him. Imagining her kissing him again, the softness of her skin, he sighed contently. 

"I dunno." Alastor said as they started with his hands. This wasn't so bad. When they locked his face in a mesh mask, his throat constricted automatically, and he shook his head. The ominous click scared him. Though there were holes, he was trapped. "Take this damn thing off!" 

"Richard," said the Healer. 

"Richard, Richard, shhhh. Close your eyes, my darling." 

James signaled to the Healers as Alastor started taking calming breaths. He relaxed and listened as she started humming Debussy’s “Clair de Lune”. Alastor wondered if she could play this. As he lay there and played this question back in his mind, he decided it was indeed a stupid question. Given her skill, she could probably play anything by ear. He imagined her playing the tune on her violin. 

When she stepped away for a moment, he called out for her, so she came back and held his aching hands. The Healer's spell felt like tiny, prickling needles. He equated this to getting a tattoo, though Alastor had none of those. "You're doing great, Richard. Nearly there. It's almost over." 

Finished in minutes, the Healers took off the mask and set it aside. Alastor drank a Calming Draught, although he didn't feel he needed it. When they handed him the mirror, he tensed. His reflection showed him a horrifying canvas. Oddly enough, and he credited this to the draught, he found it wasn't so bad. The Healers told him to rest and left them alone again. James, nervous, patted his hands and pressed them to her lips. 

"Your fiancé's going to have a field day," Alastor warned her, but he didn't tell her to stop. She possessed a rare quality for an Auror, and Alastor hoped the career wouldn't beat it out of her. He'd seen more than his fair share in the last eight years. "You're affectionate, Miss James." 

She set his hands at his sides and tucked him in. "It's good practice for when I make those babies, sir. Because it's what I'm good for. And it's Dixon." 

"Ah. Of course." Alastor licked his dry lips and groaned when she applied lip balm to them. She helped him into a sitting position and filled a plastic cup with cold water with a simple spell. If he didn't see it pouring from her wand tip, he wouldn't have taken it. On second thought, he handed it back to her. "Taste." 

"Mr. Moody." She rolled her eyes when he threw the name Dixon back at her. After his experience at the bar, he wasn't accepting a drink freely anymore. She took a sip to humor him. "It's nice. Am I your poison taster now? I poured that drink for you, mind you." 

Alastor thanked her because this had not occurred to him. He set the drink on the bedside cabinet and waited ten minutes. James didn't keel over or start foaming at the mouth or anything, so he took this as good enough. She did, however, look severely pissed off, especially when he asked for a refill. She tasted it again and they went back to their conversation. 

 

He requested Miss James for every assignment that required a partner. Even when he didn’t need a wife, he dragged her along, and she jumped at the opportunity like an eager student answering a question. Especially with his new haggard makeover, what woman would want to even pretend to be his wife? 

Over the last couple of years, they'd grown as friends. Good friends stretched it a bit much. When she broke it off with the good olde fiancé, she ended up at his flat and they drank. They did a lot of drinking. He enjoyed her company on the weekends, and she dragged him off to something called a cinema. 

She was Muggle-born. When he asked how she earned her Muggle money, James pointed out a few corners on the street. When he gave her a questioning look, she conjured her violin and kicked open the battered case as she danced round like a fairy. He caught her paper bag and watched her for an hour. As it was a Saturday night, she continued playing in the rain until the crowd parted and the weather finally won out. 

Soaked and laughing madly after she packed up her instrument, she danced around like a drunken fool. James was sober. Alastor smiled and dragged her home. As they were on assignment, they lived in a third floor flat the Ministry used for assignments. When they got inside, she kicked off her heels, leaving them on the floor along with the violin case and started kissing him. 

"It's such a rush. You've no idea." James went to go sit on the couch as he chilled the wine. Alastor cast a Chilling Charm and returned to the sitting room with wine and glasses. He pointed his wand at the grate and flames erupted there. She had two glasses, though he barely nursed his. She asked for another. 

"Stealing money from Muggles?" He raised his eyebrows and set the bottle aside. He didn't get it. It was a good thing they checked candidates records before letting them join the ranks. "Oh, I imagine you're quite the tricksy thief, Miss James."

She laughed, a sound he loved, and they clinked glasses. When he asked if he was taking the couch tonight, she set her empty glass next to the one he'd barely touched. She took off her undergarments and straddled him. 

"You're drunk, Miss James," he said, sighing when she kissed him. He groaned when she unzipped his trousers. She asked him if he wanted her to stop. Whilst his head said yes, the rest of him said no. 

He loved when she whispered seductively in his ear, "You're my husband, Mr. Ross." She sighed when he gave up and got comfortable. "That feels good. You've never done this?" 

He cupped her breast and shook his head. She moaned. He gestured at his face as they slowed down. "The drink helps?" 

"What's wrong with this face?" She shifted position and sat on his lap. She caressed his scars and turned his face towards the light. “I see only you, sir.” 

"Lenore." 

"Say it again. You never say my name." She kissed him again, making it hard for Alastor to string coherent thoughts together. 

"James." He smiled when she made a tutting noise and shook her finger at him. He'd often thought if this Auror thing didn't work out, she'd make a fine strict teacher. He couldn't recall her cover name; there were a handful of names she'd used. "Mary? Sarah? Tiffany?" 

"It's Norah, fool." She nipped playfully at his neck. 

"Well, I was getting there. Get up." Alastor fixed his trousers as he walked into the kitchen. "How many times have I told you to pick a couple of names and stick with them? You make me look stupid. You're very good, by the way, thank you, Norah." 

Playing along with her game, he mouthed, “Lenore.” 

"Well, as we've been married for seven years, George, I thought you tired of this old thing. George or Richard? Richard or George? I'm so confused." 

"Very amusing." He poured two cups of tea and handed her one when he returned to the sitting room. "What does this mean?" 

"It's a name, Alastor. You pick one." James sipped her tea and frowned at his lopsided expression. "Oh, this? It's ... it's nothing. It's scratching an itch." 

"Scratching an itch, Lenore?" 

"I'd be fine with it, you know. You're really talented. If you wanted ... you've got to get lonely, Alastor. We're friends." She patted his knee. "Like brother and sister." 

"Except we scratch an itch?" Alastor worked a fifty-hour work week, and he knew she did the same. This didn't count whenever they got slammed with cases. He took her cup and set it aside. They made out and he ran his hands up her body. "Brothers and sisters don't do this, Norah. You're more." 

"Alastor. We can't." Lenore got to her feet and cleared the coffee table with a casual flick of her wand. She slipped on her underwear and went to take a shower. When she came back, he held her in his arms and played with her damp hair. 

"Why not?" he asked gruffly. He ran his gnarled fingers through her hair. The shampoo intoxicated him. "I love your hair." 

"Your mother for one." James turned around to face him when Alastor snorted. What did his mother's opinion matter? He was twenty-eight and could do as he damn well pleased, thank you very much. They made love again on the floor by the fireplace. Lenore caught her breath when he rolled onto his side. "Damn." 

"Want to go again, wife?" 

"No. I hoped the first time was a fluke." She got up and tied her dressing gown, shaking her head. He promised not to distract her again. "Do you know what happens to people like me?" 

"You're an exceptional Auror," he said. 

"Thank you. I know that, but thank you." Lenore checked the fire and started pacing the sitting room. Alastor looked up her and reminded her both his parents were Aurors. He gave his mother, Diana, as an example, and Lenore wrung her hands as if she were in actual physical pain. "Diana isn't normal." 

Alastor, insulted, sat up and fixed his clothes. "I'm sorry? You wish you could be my mother." 

"Yeah, I do. She's a gift from God." A smile touched Lenore's lips as she went back the other way, and Alastor, caught between anger and flattery, merely sat there. "She took no leave after having you because she feared they'd edge her out. Who returns to work three days after giving birth? Have you read her cases?" 

"Lenore, come on." Alastor grew up reading his parents' triumphs. His father became head of department at the young age of forty, the youngest to hold that post. 

"Exactly! Look at you. You're ... you're amazing. Other Aurors respect you simply because you're you. And it's not because of your name, Alastor." She pointed at herself, saying she didn't deserve to stand by his side. Some Muggle-born from Reading? When he suggested they get married, she laughed her head off. 

"All right." Alastor, dejected, told himself she at least didn't cry. "Never mind." 

"It's not. That's my point! You're saying the right thing, you are, but you said yourself you don't believe in marriage." She slapped her hands together and turned and faced him. "Marry you? What comes next? A baby. I'll say I'll go back, for that's what they always say, but then we'll have another. I like kids, so I'll be fine. And I'll be ruined." 

"My mother," said Alastor. He scratched his chin, thinking perhaps this wasn't the best argument. "You know what? I take that back. She said I was a mistake." 

Lenore laughed so hard she cried. 

"No, no, I swear to God, she said, 'Alastor, I love you, son, but you weren't supposed to happen. I messed up, and by the time I realized it, I wanted to kill your father.' Her words, not mine." Alastor shrugged fairly, seeing his mother's point, because he wanted no children himself. Especially not accidental ones. "Later on, she amended that to the best mistake she ever made. Because I'm me. Stop laughing, Lenore." 

She ran off to the loo. 

"Lovely woman."

Alastor laid back on the carpet and closed his eyes. The Ministry of Magic owned him. Even as he closed his eyes, he pictured things a little ways down the roads. They'd live in a nice house in London. They'd have a toddler, maybe a dog, and Lenore would be pregnant with a second child. She'd raise them alone because he'd have to work. He would not go for head of department because Alastor hated the administrative paper stuff, but he'd stay with her. 

"What're you doing?" She stood over him, brushing her teeth. 

"Thinking. You don't do that in here, James, that's disgusting." Alastor rolled his eyes when she went to finish up in the kitchen. "So, why did nobody tell me my mother's not human?" 

"Because you're you." Lenore tapped her rinsed toothbrush with her wand and it disappeared. "Did we get this foolish notion of marriage out of your head?" 

"Yes. Miss James?" 

"Back to that, are we?" Lenore ran her fingers through her hair as she went back in the sitting room. "Yes, Mr. Moody?" 

"That man. Your fiancé. He was a fool." 

Alastor said goodnight and headed upstairs. She usually got the bed without question. When she came up and climbed into bed with him, Lenore mentioned how it was nice to not feel like she slept in a prison cell. On their first assignment, she'd complained that she'd felt like a prisoner. She commented on the food, too, but she left the drink alone. 

 

He thought she'd move on. Alastor wanted her to have the husband and the children she'd insisted she could live without. What in the ruddy hell did she see in him? When children saw him, they stared and ran the other way. He disguised himself whenever possible, especially in the city, because it felt more comfortable for everyone involved. 

As time passed, he learned things. The conviction rate was an impressive one over the next five years, and he rarely got inquiries filed against him. Lenore got promotion after promotion, and his mother even bothered congratulating her on a few saves. They didn't stay together because it was indecent, and they weren't married. 

"My mother keeps asking me why I'm not married." She no longer wore the engagement ring, but they'd settled on a wedding band for undercover assignments. She patted his chest. 

"How old are you?" He stared at the ceiling and patted her shoulder. 

"Twenty-eight." It was 1961. This meant something. Even though women were slowly gaining ground in the Muggle world, a woman's place stayed at the hearth. The home. It was like this in the wizarding world, too, although women held more power. "I should've been a son." 

"No, no." He wiped the sleepiness from his eyes. She'd woken him up with a pleasant surprise. Although they had said no sleepovers, he'd bent this rule on the weekends. He sighed, content, when she disappeared under the covers and started playing her game. "Good girl." 

Lenore played him like she played the damn fiddle. When a head floated in his fireplace, he sighed and listened to the man’s raspy tone. The Ministry never took a day off. Even on Sundays, no matter which Auror was on call, his name got tossed around. Why not Diana and John's boy? Yeah, he had no hopes at a life. Lenore had stopped, listening. When the Auror disappeared, she lay her head on his chest, wrapped in a cocoon. 

"No matinee cinema?" She frowned at him, pouting. 

"Nope. All right. This thing we're doing? That face you're making?" He mimicked Lenore as best he could, though she pulled it off better. Alastor had taken no notes, although he always kept quill, ink, and parchment on his bedside table. He got up and pulled on some clean robes. "We're dating, Miss James. You and me? We're an item." 

"We're not." Lenore pointed at the band on his finger and snuggled in the bed; she moved over to his side. 

"People talk." He pulled on his shoes.

"They say you're mad. It's not because you talk to yourself." Lenore circled back to this so often Alastor found it wearing. 

“I don't have time for this,” he said. 

“You never have time for anything.” 

Lenore complained of this a lot, too. Funnily enough, Alastor swore she preferred to argue for the hell of it, so he’d didn't entertain her. In an interrogation, the interviewer held all the cards. If he shut it down, she got nothing from it. After saying he’d see her sometime this afternoon, he left out the front door. 

He should’ve taken off the wedding band. Despite the fact that he was undercover as a Mr. Jones, he hadn't needed his wife along for the ride on this one. Why did he ask her to marry him that one time? If they had married, it would have satisfied her mother, and his father wouldn't have been too fussed about it either. Thinking this was going to be nothing but a quick run, he left the ring on and continued on his way. 

He arrived at the Apparition point five minutes later, but he wasn’t alone. A little fat boy dressed in smart clothing and an Ivy cap stood back against a wall. A man, a wizard, stood over him brandishing a wand in one hand and a pipe in the other. Running late, Alastor almost gave a hurried apology and continued on his way, but something in the boy’s eyes distracted him. 

Alastor stepped forward cautiously, careful not to make any assumptions. He put the assignment on the back burner. He asked if this man was this boy’s father. The man said yes, a definite yes. The boy hesitated. 

“Sir, I suggest you continue on your way,” said Alastor, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. The boy, like most of the children Alastor met, didn't know which man to be more afraid of. Was it the pipe manic or the haggard freak? Alastor, rolling his eyes at the wizard, flashed his I.D. badge. 

“That ain’t you,” said the man. Alastor got this a lot actually, for the moving photograph hadn't been updated since the freak accident. 

“This child is no more than nine,” said Alastor, pointing out the real issue here. He spoke calmly, though his patience evaporated fast. He smelled spirits on the man's breath. “Leave.” 

“I just told you he’s mine,” growled the man. He struck Alastor with the pipe; it scratched the side of his face. 

Alastor took out his wand and pointed it at the man’s chest. The boy, scared out of his mind, cowered behind him. Alastor couldn’t see straight anymore, but he took his best shot. He missed. Cursing, he ordered the boy to stay put. There were footsteps, which meant there was more than one. Reorganizing badly, he stopped and listened. He’d been an exercise like this once blindfolded. 

The drinker, the pipe wielder, backed off, wheezing. Something slapped against skin; someone struck Alastor four times with the serrated pipe, though he paused before the fourth strike. Why? Dragging himself from the Apparition point, Alastor heard bone crack, and they pulled him back. Alastor screamed, focusing on the boy; he marked him as a focal point. There were two faint pops; two of them had Disapparated. 

He heard the last one’s raspy voice as Alastor’s limb got ripped from his body. He’d heard this voice earlier this morning. He felt it; this wasn't just broken bone. He’d broken his foot before. Pale and winded, he aimed his wand and caught the idiot with the distinct tone in the face. The man fell backwards. 

“Shock, you’re in shock,” Alastor told himself. 

This was a normal reaction, and he’d be fine. Any self-respecting matron could reattach a limb. What was proper protocol for this? With a severed limb, wouldn’t the blood go to the vital areas? He didn’t know. Red spilled onto the grass as the fourth attacker fled. Breathing shallowly, he spotted his leg by a tree. He couldn't stop the bleeding. 

“Boy, boy, come here,” he said. The boy froze, terrified. “What’s your name? Let's start with that.” 

“Barney Cuffe.” 

“Okay, good, that’s good. I’m Alastor.” 

The boy nodded mechanically. As Alastor wasn't fond of children, this painstaking exchange could last forever, so he tiptoed around this. He scooted and grabbed the I.D. badge and tossed the bloody thing to Barney. He wanted to ask the kid to fetch his leg or craft a tourniquet, but these things were clearly out of the question. The boy caught the badge. 

“Number seven, William’s Way,” said Alastor, pointing his bloody finger in the direction. “You ask for Jones … Sarah Jones, you hear me? You give her that. You tell her to go to St. Mungo’s. You run like your life depends on it.” 

Barney nodded, his sweaty face determined. His Ivy cap fell off his head. 

“You ask for who?” 

“Sarah Jones.” 

“Yes. Go!” 

Alastor held his wand aloft and cried for help. As he muttered about Obvilating the fat boy, Alastor slipped away. 

 

They might’ve been able to save the leg if he’d called for help immediately instead of sending the boy to fetch Lenore. Why had he done it? Why was he such an idiot? He’d accepted the face. He looked like someone had carved it with a crude hand, but the face had grown on him. What if he couldn’t walk again? He had a retirement plan in place and the Auror Department would help him, but what would he do? He was a Auror. There was no backup plan. 

The Healers had stopped the infection from spreading up his leg. A boy, a fat boy, had cost him everything. Nothing would come of fat Barnabus Cuffe. The matrons came in and suggested range of motion exercises and told him there were options to get him walking again. Unless they could regrow his leg again and erase the stupidity of this day, he didn’t want to hear it. Why hadn't he asked the Auror for his badge number? 

“Your wife is here, Mr. Moody.” The Healer ducked out as Alastor threw an empty bed pan at her. 

“Alastor, don’t bite the hand that feeds you,” said Lenore. She wore a plain yellow dress and offered him his potion to ward off possible infection. 

“Go to hell.” 

“I’m already there,” she said sadly, pulling up a chair. They were on a ward this time, and the nearby patients seemed interested in Alastor’s story. He spoke to none of them. “Alastor.” 

“Please leave.” He only asked nicely once. Lenore, stupidly, ignored him. She talked to him. When she got up to straighten something, he grabbed her by the wrist. “You are nothing! I chose you. That fiancé? You want to talk about getting back up? Nobody needs you. That’s twice now you’ve failed me.” 

“I failed you?” Lenore stared him down and yanked her arm away. “Look around, you ass. Where are your people? The Ministry will survive without you. I have never walked away from you. Not once. If you decide to lie here and give up, that’s fine. I am your people. I …I care for you. I stay for you.” 

She gathered her things and took a deep breath before she started towards the door. “If you give up, if you quit, you fail me. That’s fine.” 

“Miss James.” Alastor counted the ceiling tiles and gathered his thoughts. What did he care if everyone heard this? He raised his voice, already annoyed with her. “Miss James! Lenore Colleen.” 

She marched back towards him. “What? I hate you.” 

“Really?” He raised his eyebrow, studying her face as she yanked the curtains closed around his bed. When he beckoned her forward. “Say that again.”

“I hate you.” Alastor reached up and stroked her cheek. He used his upper body strength to pull him up. When she spat it in his face as she said it the line with more conviction this time, he kissed her. “This is inappropriate.” 

“You’re inappropriate. I outrank you. Tell me, Miss James, who’re they going to believe?” He laughed at the panic written all over her face. He conjured a mirror and shared this moment with her. 

“Miss James.” She set the mirror aside and grinned at him. When she asked him to budge up, Alastor shook a finger at her and made a tutting noise. Lenore got the joke. 

“So, I’ve been thinking.” 

“That’s dangerous. Been hearing stuff in the walls again, have you?” 

“You … you are not funny.” Alastor stopped, wondering when she had gotten this brave with him. Lenore sat down in her chair after she pulled the curtains back. She asked him to marry her. “Seriously. Not funny. You want to spend the rest of your life with a cripple? Do you get points for that?” 

“I’m more worried about the paranoia, honestly,” she said, tapping her foot on the floor. 

“Oh, my God. You’re serious.” He studied her blank expression. “You’re insane.” 

“Says the man who only drinks from a hip flask,” she said fairly, shrugging. “You’re one of those crazy people who knows he's crazy, Alastor. You are in control your fate.” 

“I’m not crazy.” 

“Alastor. You see what you see, and you hear what you hear.” 

“I’m not crazy.” 

“All right.” She dropped the subject for the moment. 

“I’m not easy, and I’m not going to change. I love you, Lenore, but I will not marry you.” 

“Alastor.” 

“No. Nothing has to change.” 

Alastor could see it. Without meaning to, he’d drag her into his hell, and he’d slowly rip her apart piece by piece. They were both Aurors, but she was not a marked target. She understood his paranoia, and he saw it coming but Lenore viewed the world differently. 

“Why not?” She failed to disguise the hurt in her tone. Lenore didn't need a husband, and she understood now. Or he hoped she did. “You love me?” 

“More than I can say, Miss James,” he said, counting the ceiling tiles again. He asked her to tell the Healers to search for a proper prosthetic. When she started towards the ward door, he called after her again. “Lenore.” 

“Yes?” 

“You are mine. My Lenore. Whatever I say to you, however I might threaten you, I want you to hear this.” 

“Yes? Use your words.” She faced him. 

“Impatient, insufferable bitch.” He was still determinedly not looking at her and stopping on tile number seventy-one. He took a deep breath. “You are the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” 

Thanking him, especially for the endearing heart-warming first part, she went to grab a wheelchair and track down the Healers together. After they drafted a rehabilitation plan, she took him outside and parked beside the derelict department store. 

Lenore conjured one of her favorite violins. After kicking it open, she gave him a mock bow and rested the violin in its proper position and got lost in the music. Alastor smiled when she switched to a fast-paced medley and started dancing around. When a small child stopped by, tugging his mother’s robes, she knelt on the ground, still playing, and the mother laughed. She tossed a few Sickles and Knuts in with the Muggle money. Lenore spun round thrice and struck up old “Clair de Lune” as Alastor tapped his foot.


	2. Drawn and Quartered

Alastor loved her. Over the years, he probably crossed the line here and there, but he kept crawling into bed with this woman. They tossed the question of marriage back and forth like a hot potato, yet they refused each other over and over again. There were different reasons on this recycled list of excuses: independence, careers, commitment, friendship. Grey haired and retired now, he preferred life as a bachelor. 

"Ah, you are a fine girl," he said, running his hand through her hair. There were lines on Lenore's face now, and she'd put on more weight, though she still held onto her beauty. The sex felt different nowadays; he still scratched the same old inch. The late afternoon sunlight poured through his bedroom window. "I invite you to dinner, Lenore, and you take me to my own bed." 

"Yes." She started kissing him again. They lay there catching their breath. He commented on the streaks of grey in her hair, and her kisses stopped. She frowned. "You like it?" 

He nodded. When he'd been forced into retirement and effectively and efficiently edged out by Rufus Scrimgeour, she'd been the only one to calm him down and implore him to see reason. They'd cast him aside three months ago, and it felt like another injury. As a consolation prize, he'd gotten the best retirement plan possible when he'd negotiated terms with the right people. 

"Are you all right?" Lenore stroked his face and slapped his hand away when he looked away. Alastor went to take his magical glass eye out off of the glass on his bedside table; it swiveled as it cleaned itself in there. Alastor kissed her deeply. He'd buried his anger underneath a lot of love making since May She went along with it, though he suspected she tired of it. Lenore got out of the bed. "Alastor, get over it." 

"You get over it." 

Alastor popped his eye back into its socket. Lenore hated that this sounded like a plunger being pulled from a sink. His leg laid in a chair. Hadn't he given his life to the Ministry of Magic? His own father had died working for the government; he'd keeled over one day whilst getting ready for work. His mother, Diana, had enjoyed a quiet retirement. Thankfully, neither of them had survived to witness this embarrassment. He blinked a few times, letting the glass eye readjust itself. 

"Your daddy was a professor. Does he even know what you do for a living?" Alastor snorted when Lenore said she'd claimed to be a detective in charge of some special unit. Alastor grunted as he got dressed and strapped on the leg. As she rattled on, he grew more impatient with her. "What? Sitting at a desk shuffling paper and chasing down petty thieves? It's not the same thing." 

"Wizards and their Muggle stereotypes," Lenore snapped, fixing her clothes. She didn't often argue the point until he annoyed her enough. He followed her down the corridor. When he grumbled a usual line, saying whatever came to mind, Lenore rounded on him when they entered the sitting room. She jabbed a finger into her own chest. "What does it matter? Alastor, I'm one of them! I'm the daughter of a literature professor and a secretary, remember?" 

"I wasn't talking about you," he growled under his breath. 

He'd met her bookworm father. Alastor liked Professor James because it was thanks to him Alastor stayed in the know about contemporary and classical Muggle literature. Now that he was retired, he actually had time to sit down and enjoy a good book. He limped over to his bookshelf, found the _Collective Works of Edgar Allan Poe_ and _An Anthology of British Literature_ , and handed the two heavy volumes over to her. Smirking, he almost added the _Adventures of Sherlock Holmes_ , too, but he put that one back. 

"Thank your father for me, will you?" He strode into the kitchen and took stock of the stores in the pantry. "Breakfast for dinner?" 

"The Sherlock Holmes is a first edition." Lenore waved her wand over the texts and they disappeared. Alastor said he liked it, and Lenore said it was one of her favorites, too. She leaned on the swinging door leading into the kitchen, frowning at him. "I know for a fact he lent these to you years ago.” 

"Funny thing when you work sixty hours a week for forty years." Alastor cast a few simple spells. Bacon sizzled in one pan while eggs scrambled themselves in another. Potatoes chopped themselves on a cutting board, and dishes zoomed around. "You don't have time for a life."

She helped herself to a slice of bacon as the rest of it landed on kitchen towel. Lenore burned herself. 

“I found time.” Lenore found his hip flask and washed it in soapy water by hand. He watched her out of the back of his head. “You can tell me off if you’d like. Sanitation saves lives. After everything you’ve been through, I’d think you’d fear infection.” 

“You sound like Frank Longbottom,” he said, dishing up plates. He shrugged off her comments. “I am a grown man.” 

“You’re an idiot.” She turned the hip flask upside down on the draining board after she’d cleaned this, too. 

“There are cleaning spells for that.” Alastor placed the plates on the table. “Eat, housekeeper.” 

“Oh, you’re a funny man.” Lenore hung the dishtowel on the range and sat down with him. “Isn’t it funny how I accept food from you, and yet you won’t accept so much as a sandwich from me? Unless you watch me make it.” 

“Maybe I’m poisoning you.” Alastor shrugged again when Lenore dropped her fork, picked it up again after muttering this was simply Moody being Moody, and started eating. “Don’t come crawling to me when you’re …” 

“Dead?” Lenore smiled at him when she got up to pour the tea. She did use magic to clean out his hip flask because it was quicker. She filled his first, poured her own, and sat down again. “You need more than one of those. Get a proper tea set, Alastor.” 

He made a face. “Nobody comes here.” 

Lenore gestured at herself. “I don't count? No, that’s wishful thinking. What exactly do you do when Professor Dumbledore comes here? Please tell you’ve accepted the post. You’re moping.” 

“I accepted.” What else was he going to do otherwise? He wasn't moping. “Leaving tomorrow morning.” 

“Good.” She seemed satisfied. Lenore patted his hand and muttered she worried about him. 

“Why bother?” Alastor spread his eggs onto toast and took a swig from his hip flask. His mother had once said Lenore and Alastor acted as brother and sister. This bothered him; they passed a certain question back and forth to keep a game going. Lenore had come up with the hip flask idea, seeing as he liked to indulge in drink now and then. “You needn't worry.” 

“All right.” Lenore stopped listening to him again; he could tell by the tone of her voice. 

Alastor frowned, for something felt off about her, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. How would her face fall like that when he told her he headed to Hogwarts? She’d told him to get out and enjoy life. Well, really, she’d said get the hell out of the house and start living a life. 

“What happened?”

She shook her head and stared at her plate. He cooked for a bachelor, so his food couldn't possibly be that good. 

“Lenore. I’m only asking once.” 

“You’re going to think I’m mad. No, on second thought, it’s you.” Lenore cupped her tea in her hands. Alastor grunted. “Something feels off.” 

“Explain.” Alastor rolled both his eyes when she pouted at him. He got up, gathered the dishes, and dumped them in the sink. If Lenore wasn’t sitting there, he would’ve left the washing up for later, but he didn’t. He kept the magical eye on her. She applied lip balm and drummed her fingers on the table. “Explain more. Say something. What the hell am I supposed to do with that?” 

“I don't know.” Lenore sighed. “I’m tired, I guess.” 

He jerked his head towards the corridor. “There’s a bed. If you want to spend the night, I’d be all right with that.” 

“And leave before you head off to school? How scandalous.” 

“What are you? Sixteen? I bet your father knows more than you suspect.” Alastor dumped out the rest of his tea and rinsed out the hip flask. He knew Professor James wouldn’t care. She rolled her eyes. “ I saw that. How long have I shared your bed? People know.” 

She flushed with color. “Alastor.” 

“What? I could’ve said I fucked you.” 

“Alastor!” 

“What? My point exactly. You are the professor’s little girl.” 

Finished with cleaning the kitchen, Alastor went over to her and started massaging her shoulders. He did this badly. Even when they worked together at Auror Headquarters, he didn't care if or when people discovered them. Except for the ring and some recited nonsense about promises, the two of them were basically married. Common law didn't exist in the wizarding world, but if it had, they would’ve crossed that line a long time ago. 

“You should move in.” He offered her a key and balked when she reached in her pocket and produced a copy. “Never mind. Where’d you get that?” 

He suspected she’d cast a Germinio Charm to create a spare key. When had he left his keys on the laying around? He snatched it from her. 

“Albus Dumbledore.” Lenore raised her voice when he walked away cursing fluently under his breath. Alastor went to add things to his trunk and triple check that he had everything. She followed him and stood in the doorway to his bedroom. Alastor found his key ring and ran through a quick mental checklist. “He seemed to think you needed a friend around. He set it via owl. About a year ago after you changed the locks.” 

“Breaking and entering,” he said, wondering when he’d get a moment to fix all of his broken Sneakoscopes. He grabbed his Invisibility Cloak and stuffed it into the second compartment; he’d almost forgotten it. 

“Dumbledore had a key.” She sat on the unmade bed and made herself at home. “Oh, I see. You know he has a house key to check up on you. He worries about you, too.” 

“Completely different.” Dumbledore had stayed with him briefly a few summers ago in the spare bedroom. Alastor, who had worked well past five at the Ministry, had not wanted the old man to be stuck. Alastor’s place was guarded by much more than a simple “Alohomora,” so visitors usually had to wait or came back later. He tossed the key back at her. “It’s yours.” 

“Thank you.” She caught it before it slipped through her fingers. Lenore said she was fifty-five and saw no point in this fuss. “You have a key to my flat.” 

“Yeah. You offered it to me.” He heaved himself to his feet and locked the trunk before he set his key ring aside. He set his clothes out for tomorrow, a habit he’d picked up years ago. “Keep your flat.” 

“Kicking me out already, are you?” She got to her feet and picked her traveling cloak off the floor. Lenore said she needed to go anyway because she had paperwork to catch up on. She kissed him good night. 

“No. Where else are you going to find a place like that in London? It’s nice. You and that violin student need a place. Mr. Jonathan Quincy.” He sighed when she said Jonathan was a medical student who played violin; there was a difference. 

“It’s Jonathan,” she corrected him for the umpteenth time. 

“Mr. Jonathan Quincy. Future Dr. Jonathan Quincy.” He always referred to Jonathan this way because it got on her nerves. 

Lenore shook her head. “Good night, Alastor.” 

“See you around, Lenore. Let yourself in next time.” He smiled when she waved goodbye, though he felt she started ignoring him again. 

He got in bed before he realized she’d left her violin by his door. Thinking he’d drop it off before heading to school tomorrow, he popped out his eye, placed it in the saline solution and drifted off to sleep. 

 

 

Over the next months, Alastor found he had a lot of time on his hands, although he didn’t draft lesson plans or fix any instruments. In fact, he never got around to doing a lot of teaching. He’d never been a prisoner before, but he learned to deal with it. Everything, absolutely everything, came with time. He’d never hated anyone quite so much as he hated Barty Crouch. 

This, he felt, must be what a dog felt like when it was locked in a cage. The man left him out three times a day to use the bathroom, although Alastor never left his office. He felt relieved Crouch wasn't a Leglimens, or he’d be in trouble. They didn't talk much. In fact, if it were up to Alastor, he wouldn’t talk at all, but Crouch needed answers. 

He didn’t let the man touch him unless it was completely necessary. After a while, he needed help getting back in the trunk because he’d accidentally shattered his ankle. Small actions drained him. 

“You’re not really a threat,” said Crouch, helping him into a chair. Alastor went back to his tune, ignoring him. “You’re humming. What’s that?” 

Alastor merely stared at him and waited as Crouch healed him. He set the bone wrong. As the place got sealed with Silencing Charms, a measure Alastor would’ve taken himself, there was no chance of anyone hearing the screams. Frustrated and exhausted, he asked for a splint. Bandages shot out of the end of Crouch’s wand and wrapped his injury. 

“Wait. Wait.” Alastor held up a hand, hating himself, as Crouch raised his wand, ready to place him back under the Imperius Curse. Why was he negotiating with this idiot? “You need answers. Ask me.” 

Crouch didn't trust him; this was a good sign. “You’ll lie.” 

“Why would I lie to you?” The last time he did that, Crouch had him go without food for two days. “I … I can't do that.” 

“Tell me about your father.” 

“Tell me about your father.” Alastor regretted these words the moment Crouch hit him in the jaw. He’d lost his composure for a moment and forgotten himself. “He’s dead. Not that interesting. Muggle-born. Collected cigars.” 

“Mudblood,” Crouch spat. 

Alastor shrugged. 

Crouch changed the subject, already bored with the subject of John Moody, although the man had been a gifted Auror. “Ever married? Who would want to marry you?” Crouch cackled as if he’d said something funny. 

“None of this is going to help you.” What did it matter if Alastor Moody had been married before? If Albus had brought it up in conversation, he would’ve said her name. Alastor’s mind drifted off as he imagined Lenore’s blonde hair and her kind eyes. “Never married. No.” 

“Everyone hates you.” “I hate you.” Alastor sighed when the man climbed out of the trunk. Thinking he’d gone too far, he crawled over to his makeshift bed and cursed himself for crossing the line. When Crouch returned with food, Alastor did not bother thanking him. He picked up the sandwich and ate slowly. “Why are you doing this? It can’t be because of Frank Longbottom.” 

Alastor wanted to punch Crouch when he laughed about this. He waited, reminding himself these things took time. What was the point of wasting his time getting angry with this man? As he sat there, Crouch took a swig of Polyjuice Potion, and his features distorted a little. 

“I bet you're not getting a good night's sleep,” said Alastor, gesturing at the hip flask. Crouch had to that stuff every hour on the hour even at night. Chances were slim that Albus Dumbledore would track this bastard down in the middle of the night, but he never knew who would come searching for him. “You’ve got nothing figured out, son.” 

Crouch glared at him. “I can kill you.” 

“Oh, yeah, you can do that quite easily, can't you?” It was not a threat or a challenge - Alastor stated a mere fact. When Crouch grabbed him by the throat, Alastor dropped his food and stared back into his own face. “You need me.” 

Crouch released him and backed off. When the man took out his wand, Alastor readied himself for a dose of the Cruciatus Curse or another punishment. Even without being locked up, Alastor wouldn't be able to fight it off. Instead of turning his wand on him, Crouch conjured a plate full of sandwiches and set it in his lap. 

Before he bothered with explaining the rules to this game, Alastor got it. Answers meant food. Slowly, Crouch reached inside his robes and pulled out a small stack of letters. He took the unoccupied chair. Enjoying Alastor’s puzzled look, Crouch lit his wand tip and unfolded the first letter. He read a line or two from each letter before switching to another one. 

“‘Alastor, when someone writes you, it’s curtesy to write back’. ‘You have common sense, sir, so I implore you to use it. Buy the book.’ ‘Jonathan asked after you, says he got accepted into King’s. We’re playing in the park tonight.’ Who’s this? Jonathan.” Crouch smiled. Alastor, although he had meant not to do this, must have betrayed something behind his mask. He tossed Alastor set of hip flasks. “These were your Christmas present Who’s Lenore?” 

“No one.” Alastor spoke in a dead tone. 

“Well, I think that's a lie.” 

Knowing he held all the power here, Crouch reached in his pocket and took out a Christmas card. He burned the card with his wand tip and showed him a couple stationary photographs. Lenore sat on a bench with three younger men. Jonathan, who Alastor recognized, blonde curls, long and lanky, had his arms draped over Lenore’s shoulders. This was the string quartet she’d joined three years ago. There other two heavier musicians, the viola and the cellist, sandwiched Lenore between them. He thought they were called Sean and Sam, though he wasn't sure, and Alastor didn’t know which was which. 

Crouch flipped the photograph over, showed him another. This one was of Lenore playing cello onstage. She wore a lovely plain dress. 

“That’s my answer.” Crouch caught something in Alastor’s eye. He changed his offer. In one hand, he offered the photographs, which Alastor wouldn’t be able to see if the dark. In the other, he held the plate of sandwiches. This little chat had transformed into some twisted game. “Choose.” 

“What’s the date?” Alastor hung his head. 

“Christmas Eve.” He said something about inviting Lenore out for lunch for perhaps a drink. Impatient, Crouch muttered something about a damn ball. Alastor, though he couldn't be too picky here, fought an urge to tell Crouch this was a day. Not the date. “Choose!” 

Alastor took the photographs. As Crouch left with the food, Alastor closed his eyes and hummed to himself again. It took him ages to cotton on that this was Jonathan’s rendition of “A Moment”. Jonathan had played this over and over in Alastor’s house one evening during practice. He pictured Jonathan and Lenore figuring out a bridge together as the cellist asked Alastor strange questions as he raided Alastor’s pantry and stuffed his face. Crouch, probably thinking he was mad as he clambered out of the trunk, slammed the lid shut. 

 

 

 

Although he wasn't sure why exactly, Alastor rarely bothered to ask about time. Whenever this ended, or when things took a nasty turn, he knew he'd die. Crouch, it seemed, was cleverer than he'd anticipated, and he wasn't forthcoming with information. He learned how to count time. However inaccurate it might be, and he knew he was off, it kept Alastor going. 

When he fell ill, he laid there and let the fever take him. He guessed this was the flu because it was past the holidays, and not that much time had passed. The chills confirmed this for him. He welcomed the delirious thoughts because they took him away every once in a while. 

One evening, Lenore knelt on the floor feeding him broth. It tasted awful. He'd refused food for hours, but she'd arrived. In the back of his mind, he knew people couldn't Apparate or Disapparate within the walls of Hogwarts Castle. If this were really her, he'd have better food. She would've bothered mending the stained and torn traveling cloak. People had called him mad for years. Was this it? 

"Help me." He sighed when she lifted him into her arms. When had she gotten this strong? He laid his head on her shoulder, exhausted. When he felt the hot water on his skin, Alastor leaned back, relaxing in the sponge bath. It was easier to breathe. Her lips moved, though he didn't understand her words. "I can't. I can't get out." 

Her touch hurt him. "You don't get to die. You think I'm letting you off so easily?" 

"Lenore. Please." Alastor sat on the edge of the the bathtub; he let her dress him in a nightgown and dressing gown. When they moved over to the fire, the woman's face shifted into his own, though he stared into no mirror. This was no reflection. The man handed him pills, saying he got them from a matron. Alastor, cottoning on, said, "This isn't real." 

"No. Your little wife isn't here. Take the pills." Crouch handed him a goblet of water. Alastor opened his hand. This angered him, giving Alastor the reaction he wanted. "You are stubborn." 

"Yes, people who know themselves know who they are." Alastor baited him. If he could get Crouch to focus on something else, he got to enjoy his freedom from the Imperius Curse. "Your Dark Lord, this wizard you all worship blindly, he understands this, though the rest of you? Sheep." 

Alastor had no interest in saving Crouch; he wished he'd die an agonizing death. These pills, whatever they were, were not poisonous. Alastor knocked them back. The fever and the sweats went away instantly. When he asked about how Crouch had come across these, he'd mentioned the matron in the hospital wing. Still cold, Alastor wrapped the dressing gown tighter around himself. He warmed his hands by the fire.

He handed the goblet to Crouch. 

"You'd actually let the flu take you? Muggles die of the flu." Crouch refilled the goblet and said this with contempt. He laughed harshly. "The great Alastor Moody dead because of a common disease? What a glorious end, eh?" 

"Everyone dies." Alastor didn't fear death, though he suspected Crouch did. "It doesn't matter how. You escaped yours when Daddy saved you, I'm guessing? Not a nice way to repay him, but to each his own. " 

Crouch licked his lips. A tick. Alastor never did this, yet he wasn't going to tell his imposter. "My father is worth nothing. When I am welcomed back by the Dark Lord..."

"He would burn each one of you alive. Probably make you all watch." Alastor scratched his chin. It what he would've done. You-Know-Who was a harder egg to crack. Instead of losing his temper, Crouch handed Alastor a proper meal; this was only because he was ill and wouldn't last. He split the leg quarter into two and tucked in. It beat broth for dinner. The chicken noodle soup warmed him. "My grandmother said this works. Chicken noodle soup." 

"House-elf made it." Crouch sat behind his desk. Alastor nodded. Until Crouch landed himself in prison, he'd probably always been served by a house-elf. Alastor would be willing to bet the man had never made a proper meal. 

They retreated into their silence for some time. Crouch cracked a window, and Alastor enjoyed the cold air. He wasn't stupid enough to cry out. What would this earn him? Endless nights in his trunk without regular meals? Crouch would not starve him to death, but he'd come damn close. 

"I met your wife at the Three Broomsticks." Crouch pointed his wand at the soup bowl and refilled it. That smile meant he had the upper hand again. 

Alastor stared at him. Should he believe him? Crouch could say anything. Whenever the man needed to send an owl, Alastor drafted these by his own hand. It was a sick system. Crouch mentioned some letter about asking someone to meet him. 

"She isn't my wife." Alastor said the first thing that entered his mind. He decided this was a lie. 

"Oh. Good." Crouch went back to grading essays or whatever he did at that desk. Alastor lost his appetite, but he kept eating because he needed the energy. "She's an older woman, but she's special. The way she moves. Flexible. I can see why you like her. And the way she smells? What is that? Lemons." 

Clang. Alastor dropped the spoon on the floor. He caught the empty bowl and aimed it at Crouch's head. He missed. The bowl shattered. They listened. There were footsteps. Crouch got up and dragged Alastor back across the floor. This time, desperate for someone, anyone, Alastor did cry out for help. Crouch threw him into the trunk. Alastor heard the rattling of the keys because Crouch had gotten rather good at this. Alastor pounded against the wall as Crouch spoke with the caretaker. Nobody heard him. 

 

 

Alastor lay in a bed. He could tell it was an actual bed because the mattress didn't feel like a stone floor. It was quiet, but it wasn’t a dead silence. When he opened his eye, he spotted blonde hair. Thinking it was quite unfair his first vision in the hereafter or whatever it was had to be Jonathan, he wanted to go go back to his dirt nap. 

“Mr. Jonathan Quincy.” He caught the lingering scent of some cleaning solution. 

The matron bustled over to him. She wore a dressing gown and held her taper aloft. Without speaking to him, she took his pulse and wiped him down with a cold compress. When she introduced herself as Madam Promfrey, he gave his name and asked the date. 

“June twenty-sixth,” Madam Promfrey said, reading the panic on his face. She patted his arm, noticing his twitch. He’d been in there for almost ten months. She gave him some potion for that, although Alastor doubted this would fix it. “You’re all right. I’m going to fetch Professor Dumbledore.” 

“Dumbledore.” 

He spoke to nobody in particular, for she’d already run off. How in the world had that much time passed? Alastor felt around on the bedside table and found his glass eye. It felt unclean, but he popped it in anyway and strapped on the wooden leg. This place appeared to be a hospital, though he was not at St. Mungo’s. He got shakily to his feet when figures strode up the ward and regretted it a moment later. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Lenore rushed past Professor Dumbledore and caught Alastor before he fell. She forced him back onto the bed. “Hi.” 

Alastor stared at her. Not believing his eyes, he scooted away from her like a frightened animal. If this was his mind locking him in a trap, it had kicked itself into overdrive and put on a convincing show. He looked around for his wand, but it wasn't there. 

“That’s her, Alastor, and this is yours.” Dumbledore handed over Alastor’s wand and pulled up a couple chairs. 

“Mr. Jonathan Quincy married yet?” How bizarre was it that he owed his sanity to a male violinist he barely knew? He’d thought about the young man a lot over these last days. 

Lenore beamed him and shook her head. “No. He hasn't even chosen a venue, and he’s getting married next month.” 

“Better get a move on.” 

“I’m going to touch you now. Is that all right?” Lenore reached out and stopped when he flinched. Minutes later, when they were talking with Dumbledore, he took her hand. 

“Who’s Jonathan?” Dumbledore sat down. “You talk in your sleep.” 

Lenore laughed. When Madam Promfrey, Alastor and Dumbledore turned to face her, she cleared her throat and patted the bed. Alastor rolled his eyes and grimaced at her. 

“He’s a Muggle. Plays with Lenore. He’s a fool. Medical student.” Alastor raised his eyebrows at Lenore when she gave him a questioning look. “Heard about the medical school.” 

“I see.” Lenore punched him playfully in the ribs and apologized when he winced. “He’s not a fool. You were thinking of Jonathan?” 

“I had a lot of me time. Do you want to know the dimensions of the seventh trunk? I can give you those, too.” Alastor didn't want to admit, especially in front of the matron, a stranger, that he’d thought about her. Lenore said she didn't care to know about the trunk. He used the glass eye to search for Crouch, but there were no other patients in the hospital wing. “Where is he?” 

“Dementor’s Kiss,” said Dumbledore sadly. No matter the crime, Dumbledore would never accept those creatures. He mentioned Fudge. 

“If he wanted protection, he should’ve gotten an Auror as an escort.” Alastor declined any potions from Madam Promfrey. He felt weak and tired, but he was fine. When she insisted he at least eat something, but Lenore and Dumbledore put his objections to rest. Madam Promfrey conjured chicken noodle soup. He shook his head vehemently. “Not that.” 

“Alastor,” said Lenore testily. 

“Let’s try something else, Madam Promfrey.” Dumbledore spoke kindly and didn’t bother asking Alastor questions about his captivity. The matron flicked her wand; the soup changed into a casserole dish and a side salad. 

“Sorry,” said Alastor, glancing at the matron. 

“Not at all, Professor. Let me know if you need anything.” Madam Promfrey said good night and walked away. 

Neither Dumbledore nor Alastor bothered correcting her. Alastor held the chunk of bread in his hand, and Lenore eventually took the other seat. Having them sit there and watch him eat made him feel rather uncomfortable; every time someone made a noise, usually one of the students lying in a bed, Alastor jumped out of his skin. 

“It’s okay.” Lenore magicked a handkerchief and dabbed it on his pajamas after wiping his face. She’d taken on this role before, though Alastor doubted whether it had ever been this bad. “I’ve never actually been for the death penalty, but I would’ve killed that bastard.” 

“Execution doesn't exist here, Lenore,” said Dumbledore. He offered her an owl. “The Minister requested a word with you.” 

“I’m not speaking with that man,” she said, crossing her legs and ripping the letter in half and then again in quarters. 

“You serve the Minister.” Alastor reminded her. 

“I serve the Ministry. He’s a politician.” Lenore tossed the scraps into a wastebasket. This wasn’t, strictly speaking, true, but Alastor felt too tired to argue duties. He guessed Cornelius Fudge had angered her. 

“Explain.” Alastor nodded at Dumbledore. 

“Well, it seems Cornelius and I are no longer friends. He’s decided to go it alone.” Dumbledore spoke quite calmly, though there was something in his eyes. “Before he left the castle, Lenore arrived and asked for a word on your behalf. He declined.” 

Alastor raised his eyebrows in surprise as he faced Lenore. “Why?” 

“Why would I go to him? Because you served as an Auror for almost forty years, and I felt he needed to be reminded of what you gave to the government. And he walked away from me … so I followed him and shouted at him …” Lenore held her head high and stared determinedly at the wall. “… and it got worse. A lot worse. I said things. I got suspended. I might’ve handed him my letter of resignation and told him to go to hell. What the hell? I’m your …” 

Alastor waited and set his tray aside and offered her his hand. 

“Shut up.” Lenore left the hospital wing. Dumbledore chuckled. 

Alastor wanted to shout after her to quit whilst she was ahead and stay a committed quitter. She could take early retirement, seeing as she enjoyed a good standing in her career. If she didn't want to serve under this Minister, it wasn’t likely the next one wouldn't be any better. 

“I like her.” Dumbledore smiled at Alastor. 

“You keep saying that.” Alastor laid down and snapped his fingers, remembering something that happened months ago. He still had a bone to pick with this man. “Who gives out keys to a house he doesn’t own?” 

“Alastor, that was almost two years ago.” Dumbledore eyed him over his half-moon spectacles. Alastor snorted. “She’s your … not your wife … why isn’t she your wife again?” “Not the point.” 

“She’s your person. You need your person.” Dumbledore shrugged when Alastor huffed, not accepting this answer. Dumbledore got to his feet. “You don't want her to have a house key? Take it back.” 

“Yeah, well,” said Alastor, flailing around for a comeback. 

Dumbledore, taking this answer as good enough, told him to get some rest. He’d see him at breakfast tomorrow. 

 

Three weeks later, Alastor still felt like a stranger in his own home. He’d stayed for those last remaining days of the school year, though he didn’t know why. Cornelius Fudge had asked Lenore to come back to work. He even went as far as to have Rufus Scrimgeour show up at Alastor’s doorstep, but after her two weeks’ notice expired, these efforts proved to no avail. 

“Done means done, right?” Lenore said this so much he took it as her new motto. 

She’d gone back and forth in her head, as he’d expected she would. She nodded, trying to convince herself. They shared a bedroom now, though he rarely touched her. The windows and the doors stayed open in the house. The front and back doors were under their usual protective spells. 

“Alastor?” 

“He’s going to be late to his own wedding.” 

He zipped the back of her shirt made of some shimmering stuff and handed her a suit jacket and dress pants. Lenore dressed in front of him before they headed into the sitting room. The private, quiet ceremony would be held in a conference room at the university Jonathan attended. She offered her hands to him. Alastor sat back further on the couch and nodded at Nymphadora Tonks, who sat next to him. He had stuff to do. “No.” 

“I stole her off my team for you.” Lenore jerked her head at Tonks and checked her violin case. Sean or Sam sat in a chair in the corner with his cello, his bow poised at the ready. “Come on. I’m the best man.” 

“And you still don’t think that’s odd? All his friends and he chooses you?” 

“It’s for Jonathan. He’s getting married.” Lenore made a face at Seth when he said James was pretty cool. She made a pretty boy. “Fools! For Jonathan? I need to practice.” 

“I don’t care about Mr. Jonathan Quincy.” He nodded at the cellist as he laughed. “He’s roped you into this scheme. It’s nonsense. Sam says so.” 

“It’s Seth. The other one’s Derek.” Seth winked at Tonks. 

“Dance with Seth. Seth? Change your name. Fine.” 

Alastor stood up when Lenore clicked her tongue impatiently and slapped her shoes on the table. As Seth struck up a chord, Lenore started dancing. She took Alastor’s hand. They made it through a few turns before Tonks went to go get the door. 

She knocked over a glass in her hurry, and Alastor jumped back a few feet. Jonathan thanked Tonks. He’d dressed in an expensive suit for the occasion. After setting his violin down next to the cello case, he waited for an appropriate stop to step in. Seth had only stopped playing briefly and picked up where he’d left off. 

“Mr. Jonathan Quincy.” Feeling an awkward sensation in his foot, Alastor stepped aside as Jonathan took over. 

“Mr. Moody.” Jonathan sounded slightly out of breath. Though he usually sounded afraid of Alastor or did a double take, his fear got replaced by determination this afternoon. 

He was an exceptional dancer; he danced as well as he played the violin. Without missing a beat, he picked Lenore off the floor and spun her round four times before setting her down again and continuing the waltz. She kept moving those legs, and Jonathan lifted her and spun her round again; Lenore wrapped her legs round his waist. 

“Oh, my God,” said Tonks, as Jonathan spun Lenore around his back. 

“Thanks, Lenore,” said Jonathan, resting his hand on her diaphragm when the music stopped. 

“Thank you.” 

“And you wanted me to do that?” Alastor gaped at the Lenore and waved a hand at Jonathan. “I can drop her on the floor, if we’re being realistic about this. Where in the hell did you learn to do that, sir?” 

Jonathan shrugged as if to say it was nothing. “School.” 

“School?” Alastor didn’t believe him. 

“The fiancée is a dancer at the arts university.” Lenore slipped on her shoes. “I’m nothing compared to her. She taught him; Jonathan taught me.” 

“You’re fine.” Jonathan smiled at her and grabbed both violins as Seth packed up his cello. “Seth, on the other hand, has two left feet.” 

“And Seth’s a bloke,” added Seth. He tipped his hat to Tonks. 

“The dancing physician.” Alastor shook his head. What would they think of next? When Jonathan mentioned he was thinking of becoming a orthopedic surgeon, who he explained was a bone doctor, Alastor slipped off his shoe and sock off his actual foot, showing Jonathan his ankle. “Can you reset that?” 

“Damn. What the hell happened to you?” Jonathan knelt down to check out the foot. “It’s been set before?” 

“Twice.” Alastor glanced at Lenore and caught her look. The joint kept popping out. “If I told you what happened, Mr. Jonathan Quincy, you would not believe me. You don’t want to know.” 

“You don’t,” said Tonks. 

“I can’t fix this.” Jonathan sat on the coffee table and examined Alastor’s foot gingerly. “I’m a medical student. Not a doctor, and you need a hospital. Someone botched this.” 

“A hospital,” said Lenore dryly. “Imagine that.” 

“What do you do for a living, Moody?” Jonathan helped Alastor put on his sock and shoe again. On second thought, Jonathan decided he didn't want to know. He supported Alastor’s weight and checked to make sure he had his wallet. “Come on, we’re going to the hospital.” 

“No. You’ve got to marry your girl,” said Alastor. 

“Are he serious right now?” Jonathan rounded on Lenore. “Do you see this?” 

“Yeah. Alastor.” Lenore leaned on close when Jonathan backed away, still shaking his head in disbelief as he and Seth loaded the car. She lowered her voice, though the Muggles were no longer in earshot. “Are you kidding me right now? What idiot stands through that? I hurt you. I will drag you to St. Mungo’s myself.” 

“You’re missing your wedding.” Alastor looked up when somebody laid their hand on the horn. 

“I’ll take him, ma’am.” Tonks volunteered for pretty much anything. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.” 

“Okay. You don't get yourself hurt in the process. And you. Fool!” Lenore wrapped her arms around Alastor’s neck and pecked him on the cheek. “You get that leg fixed, you hear me? I’m not going to stop worrying about you because it doesn’t work that way.” 

“I love you, too, James,” said Alastor. Lenore stopped, for he’d never actually said these three words to her before. Well, really, they were five, but she got the point. Tonks, embarrassed, flushed as violet as her hair. They both cleared their throats in unison as the horn blared again for Lenore. “Dance with your violin boy. Let me know what happens after the show. I want to know if he chokes.” 

“Mad-Eye.” Tonks rolled her eyes when Lenore and Alastor shared a laugh. 

“Conference room in the art building. Samuel Joseph Building, main conference room.” Lenore grabbed her bag and gave hurried instructions. “Wear the suit I laid out for you.” 

Alastor said he'd been there around nine, though this probably meant he’d miss the ceremony. Lenore wiped her hair out of her eyes and waved goodbye as she closed the door. 

“You and James?” Tonks smirked at him. 

“Shut up. We’ve been friends since before you were born. Roll your eyes at me one more time, woman.” After he went to change, Alastor started towards the front door. Tonks, still rooted to the spot, mouthed “friends”. She reminded him of a certain someone. He threw the door open and barked at her. “Well, are you taking me to the hospital or not?” 

 

He owed a woman a dance. 

A few hours later, when Alastor arrived alone at the university with a healed foot, he clapped a hand on Jonathan’s shoulder, and James slopped drink front of himself, shocked at Alastor’s profile in the poor light. Jonathan, now a married man, introduced Alastor to his bride, a pretty little thing. 

“Mrs. Jonathan Quincy.” Alastor offered her his gnarled hand and ignored her hesitation as he turned back to Jonathan. “Teach me.” 

Jonathan, confused, hesitated. “Teach you what, Moody? 

“Dance.” Alastor couldn’t find Lenore in the crowded place. 

“Now?” “Er, yeah. You got something better to do, Mr. Jonathan Quincy?”

“Nope. Let’s go.” Jonathan kissed his bride on the cheek and tossed her into her bridal party. 

 

Jonathan took him onto the makeshift dance floor and set his opened beer bottle on the steps. There were drunks and others milling around the place, making Alastor feel really uncomfortable, though he tried not to show it. Jonathan, counting to eight, showed him a few steps. When the young man took Alastor’s hand, he wanted to call it quits. Guests and friends laughed good-naturedly. 

“Won’t your better half get jealous?” Alastor nodded at the bride, though she couldn’t see him. Jonathan said he accepted a bet to dance with anyone and everyone who requested it on this wedding night. Alastor tightened his grip when Jonathan placed a hand on his waist. “This is strange, boy.” 

“It’s all in good fun.” Jonathan gestured at his cellist and the viola player. Chuckling, shaking his head, he called, “Where is my violinist? Mr. Moody and I are becoming fast friends.” 

Alastor followed his steps, though he was a shocking embarrassment next to him. “Is that what this is?” 

“Mr. Quincy. Do you wish to have a violinist or a best man because you can’t …” Lenore came out, and struggled to catch her breath when she spotted them. She carried two glasses of wine and downed them both. 

“One of those was mine?” Seth pouted at her as he continued playing. 

Someone took Lenore’s empty glasses and went to fetch Seth another drink. Lenore said she’d wished she had a camera. Jonathan beckoned to her, lifting the hand he had on Alastor’s waist. They switched places. Lenore fixed Alastor’s stance, and he took her by the waist. Jonathan opened his drink, although Alastor told him to get another one. 

“It’s like walking down the street. Only different.” Lenore took tentative step forwards. Alastor mirrored her badly. Jonathan howled with laughter when Alastor stepped on her foot with his clawed foot. Lenore recovered quickly and demonstrated with Jonathan before going back to him. 

“Ready?” 

“No.” 

“Alastor, remember when you were learning to walk again?” 

Lenore sighed when he nodded. They got through the first few steps without any further injures. After getting the basics down, pleasing a crowd of drunks, family, and friends, Alastor kept his magical eye on Jonathan. Jonathan, dancing with an imaginary woman, offered himself up as an example. Alastor mirrored him and dipped Lenore, keeping his normal eye on her. Lenore, shouting out in surprise, enjoyed herself with awkward beginner. 

“Mr. Jonathan Quincy. I’m pretty sure the good doctor just felt up his phantom girlfriend. Someone should alert the wife.” 

Alastor spun her around. Lenore, nodding, laughing madly, slowed down as Alastor rested his hands on her waist. When they started again, Alastor tapped her thigh, and she shook her finger at him playfully. He corrected his own stance and held her close as he turned her again. Jonathan turned to go back to get his wife, his empty bottle in his wand. When Alastor waved good night, Jonathan did a double take and tripped over his feet as he disappeared into the crowd of well-wishers.


	3. Before the Seven Potters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mad-Eye Moody makes preparations for going to get Harry Potter.

The pieces started moving across the board slowly, but they stayed in play. Alastor got absorbed in the Order of the Phoenix. Although hierarchy was rarely discussed or mentioned in the secret society, he was one of the leaders once again. It was different than fifteen or sixteen years ago. And since they had gotten an early start, or rather the earliest start possible, things were better. After Albus Dumbledore's death, Alastor became the undisputed leader. 

He retreated back to home whenever he could to grab a moment of peace. As the group gathered at his place, Alastor ran the plan through his mind once more. Lenore had left the bedroom door open because this was their home. She lay in the bath with her blonde hair pinned up. Soft, classical music played from the wireless and she hummed along to the tune as the bath filled with frothy water. Candles lit the place. 

"You look comfortable." Alastor rested his gnarled hands on the doorframe. Lenore, though she'd been asked by Dumbledore twice, had refused to join the Order. Alastor had asked her again last week, and she'd said no. This had led to a heated row and they had barely spoke to each other since. 

"Come join me." She turned off the tap with her foot. He shook his head and opened his mouth. As he limped over to her the clawed foot scraped the refinished wooden floor. "You can't win me over, Alastor, because I didn't leave the Auror Office to get tossed into the fire. Do not ask me again." 

"Fine," he growled, giving up. 

"Truce?" 

"I guess so." 

Lenore smiled, taking the win. "Kiss me." 

The Order was gathering. There were thirteen gathered in his sitting room and kitchen now. Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger had arrived with Arthur. Alastor viewed this through his magical glass eye, and he grumbled when Ron helped himself to his, Alastor's cracked Sneakoscope on the bookshelf. Mundungus had come up with this seven Potters idea. A part of Alastor knew he should've given the thief credit for the simplicity of the plan, the brilliance of it, but there were a hundred and one things that could go wrong with this. 

Although she was not in the Order, Alastor bounced ideas off of Lenore. Kingsley, his second in command, was a rare confidant, yet Alastor rarely turned his mind off. How could he when they were in the middle of a war? Was he really goinv to rouse Kingsley in the middle of the night? Lenore had told him he wasn't allowed. Although he kept his magical eye on the Order members down the corridor, he watched her. When she stepped out of the bath, he handed her a towel; Lenore dried her hair a little before wrapping it around herself.

"Last night, you said you don't trust Mundungus." Lenore brushed her teeth and watched his grim expression in the fogged up mirror. "I can be your decoy." 

"Nope." Alastor rubbed his gnarled hands together. If he moved one piece, it would be changing everything last minute. It was nothing about protecting Lenore because having another ex-Auror on the team made sense. Who did he trust more than Lenore James? 

Lenore draped the damp towel over the rack and went in the bedroom to pull on a slip. She was angry with him again. 

"Lenore." 

"No, no, Mr. Moody, why would you trust me?" Lenore yanked her dressing gown off the hook on the bathroom door. As Nymphadora Tonks walked in the bedroom, Lenore tied the strap around her waist and muttered something about being his little wife. 

"Miss James." He lowered his voice, challenging her. 

"Ah, you see? There it is again." Lenore sat on the bed and took her pumice stone out of the drawer of her bedside cabinet. She conjured a basin filled with Essence of Murtlap and dipped her hands inside it. A pumice stone eased the pains of her calloused hands; she played the violin and cello quite a lot these days. She nodded at Tonks, who beamed at her. "You're recently married. Tell me, Tonks, how weighty is your ball and chain?" 

Alastor scoffed. Lenore herself had played her instrument at Tonks's tavern wedding a couple weeks ago. Jonathan had accompanied her. 

Tonks knocked on the doorframe a little late, for she'd forgotten that part. The sides of her mouth twitched, and Alastor knew she baited to get a reaction out of him, but he gave her none. 

"I haven't got one those, ma'am," said Tonks. She waited a minute before clearing up any confusion. "I have the husband, yes, but there is no ball and chain. Or maybe ... I dunno." 

"It's not ma'am anymore, Tonks, it's Lenore. I've told you this." Lenore lifted her hands and they appeared to be covered by wax gloves. She nodded at the small heated basin. "Would you like to dip your hands?" 

"No, ma'am, I ... yeah. All right." Tonks quelled at Lenore's already annoyed look. Grinning at Alastor, she slipped her wedding ring into her pocket and sat next to the woman who used to be her commanding officer. She dipped her hands. "Oh, this is heaven. You do this a lot?" 

Lenore peeled off the gloves and rolled the gunk into a little ball before she started with the pumice stone. 

"Only when she plays often," said Alastor. "I bought this for her years ago." 

Lenore's face softened. "I forgot it was you. Tonks, take your hands down. Point them down." 

"This is cool," said Tonks, giggling as the liquid hardened into a waxlike material. "Mad-Eye? You would be the last person I'd expect to be worried over a manicure or a pedicure. You thought of this?" 

He grunted. Musicians liked to have nice hands. Lenore wasn't exactly the easiest person to shop for, and he hated shopping, anyway. Tonks peeled off the gloves, too, shocked at the amount of dead skin she'd collected there. Lenore cleaned the pumice stone with a simple spell. 

"So, these callouses." Tonks took Lenore's left hand and examined them. "Why not curse them off or something?" 

"Because they take years to build up," said Remus. Alastor jumped a little because he hadn't heard him coming. He'd knocked first. He walked in when Lenore waved him inside. When they shook hands, he commented on her soft skin. "A practiced musician uses them as a buffer because you're always going to hit the same spots. Calluses are better than blisters." 

"I hear that. You. Nymphadora. Wanna know a dirty little secret?" Lenore, grinning, seemed to notice the curiosity won out over Tonks actually being irked by her first name. Lenore cleaned the basin after it emptied itself. Remus thanked Lenore again for asking the quartet to play at their wedding. They had not been charged because Lenore had written it off as a wedding present. She opened her drawer again and took out a photograph album before she opened it and showed them a shot of the cellist. "Who's that?" 

"The big violin bloke," said Tonks slowly, snapping her fingers at Remus. Chuckling, he gave the proper name of cellist and called the fellowSeth Tuerney. Alastor liked that they worked this way. Lenore held this with two fingers and flipped back to a haggard looking wizard in robes. These robes were torn and ripped in places. "Isn't he in the Weird Sisters? You listen to rock music, ma'am?" 

"No. And it's Lenore." Lenore keep going back-and-forth. Remus laughed harder because he got it first. 

"Merlin's beard, is that ...? May I see that?" Tonks took the album and flipped through the photographs. 

Seth appeared to play the same instrument in quite a few shots. There was a tattoo, and it revealed itself he moved his hand in the wizarding snapshot; there was a treble chef on his wrist. In the stationary one, she saw nothing. In the Muggle shot, he wore jeans and a dress shirt. 

"That's Merton Graves." Tonks studied Lenore like she waited for the butt to some April Fool's prank. Lenore raised her eyebrows, took sone photographs out of the sleeves, duplicated them with a Germinio Charm, and handed them over as she replaced the originals back in the book. She read the inscription off the back of the Weird Sisters one. "'There are those who are friends and those who gifts, these, no matter what we weather, we shall not turn against.' That's from "Heartstrings." Wait. That's in his own hand. Oh, my goodness! You're Victoria." 

"What?" Alastor sounded bored, preoccupied by details with his decoy operation. 

"There's a song called 'Heartstrings' that Merton Graves wrote about a girl called Victoria. The line before that is about repeating the some line ..." Tonks slapped a hand to her forehead.

"To be fair, the man who plays the viola is called Derek. Derek Naves." Lenore grinned at her. "Seth isn't doing anything extraordinary. A lot of musicians join more than one band. Seth is simply Seth." 

"Seth owes me food," grumbled Alastor, who didn't care one way or the other who this fellow was. He wanted his stocks refilled now that he knew the cellist could afford it. 

"Alastor." Lenore shook her finger at him disapprovingly. "Really?" 

Remus checked his watch. "We're going to be late. I got an owl from Daedalus about Harry's aunt and uncle. They're safe." 

"Good, good." Alastor checked his pockets and went into the kitchen. The others followed him. Waving to the others, he smacked Ron in the back of the head and helped himself to the teacups in the cupboard. Ron, muttering under his breath as he rubbed the knot, asked what that was for. "Were you not touching my Sneakoscope?" 

"No." Ron looked guiltily at Hermione and then at his father. 

Alastor checked the contents of his coat again. After he thought he had everything, he heaved two identical rucksacks from behind the couch. He knew some of these people better than others. If something happened to him, Kingsley, who had been pulled off his Downing Street detail for a few hours, would step in. If Kingsley fell, which wasn't likely, although anything could happen, Tonks would take the lead. Alastor had brewed the Polyjuice Potion himself. Whilst he wasn't taking any of it himself, he didn't want to risk the others getting poisoned. 

"Miss Granger, we told Mr. Potter what to wear, yes?" Alastor paced the sitting room. 

"Yes." She sounded nervous. Alastor knew she'd be with Kingsley, so she'd be fine. Hagrid was outside tending to the thestrals and keeping an eye on Sirius's motorbike. 

"Good girl. All right. Kingsley." Alastor nodded as Kingsley, calm as ever, repeated the plan back to him verbatim. Alastor jabbed a gnarled finger at Tonks. 

Tonks, sandwiched between Bill and Remus said, "What he said." 

Fred, George, and few of the others laughed appreciatively. Lenore, not missing a beat, recited the plan on Tonks's behalf. The Weasleys and crew turned towards her, speechless. Why was someone who wasn't in the Order in on the know? Alastor exchanged hurried introductions. Listening to this breakdown, Lenore walked over and reached into Mundungus's coat. She found unopened cigars and a couple cigar boxes. 

"Mundungus. You're stealing from me? Have you lost your damn mind?" Alastor switched his magical eye to the bloodshot, gingery-haired thief. 

"Well." Mundungus shrugged as Lenore searched him.. "Ain't like you a smoker, Mad-Eye. You're pretty, miss. You 'is wife or summat?" 

Lenore put Alastor's things back in their proper places. "Stop whilst you're ahead. I'm out of your league, Mr. Fletcher." 

The Weasley twins howled with laughter. Alastor fought a smile as he continued with his preparations. If they lost the Potter boy after all this, he'd be beyond embarrassed. Now was not the time for error. He'd suggested a trial run, but Kingsley had pointed out the logistics of this would be damn near impossible. Everyone here was of age. Hermione and Ron were barely there, but this was their best friend they were talking about. 

Alastor checked his watch. They had ten minutes before departure. His place was one of the safe houses. George and Remus would end up here before taking the Portkey to the Burrow. Lenore needed to stay put. The more he thought about it, and Alastor had analyzed this to death, it would look odd if Lenore joined them. The Ministry knew Alastor shared a house with her. 

"It's in the guest bedroom, Remus," said Alastor, turning to face the group. He did not reveal what the Portkey was in case anything got leaked. Remus nodded. The Portkeys were bound to the Burrow. "If we get caught with an unauthorized Portkey, folks, that's on me. Not you lot." 

Lenore turned. "Alastor." 

Tonks fidgeted but nodded at the floor. 

"That boy is what's important." Alastor rubbed his hands together as he let this sink in for the others. He reached in his pocket and tossed Kingsley two vials. "If we catch any informants. Veritaserum. Kingsley caught them and pocketed the potions. "This'll sound odd coming from me, folks, but you keep the real enemy in mind. You are not alone." 

"Isn't it obvious the enemy's You-Know-Who?" asked Ron. 

"Yes and no." Lenore went in the kitchen and came back with a sheathed dagger. Alastor shook his head, saying he didn't want it, so she offered it to Kingsley and Tonks in turn. Remus Lupin took it and slid it inside his robes. "You throw straight." 

Remus nodded. 

"If a Harry gets captured, you say nothing. Nothing at all." Alastor thought of this last minute. They, the Order, would need to get their story straight, and that Harry's protector would likely be dead. 

"Yeah, but that's not like Harry, Mad-Eye," said Ron. 

"It isn't," said Hermione as they traipsed outside.

Hagrid, already straddled on the motorbike. Ron shared a broom with George. They would divide into teams later. The Ministry of Magic would notice a group Apparating onto Privet Drive. Kingsley, grinning, helped Hermione onto a threstral. He'd told Alastor to listen to the kids because they were Potter's best mates. 

"Miss Granger." Alastor checked his watch. They were cutting it close. Lenore helped Fluer Delacour onto a threstral as Bill watched over his brothers and made sure they were good to go. 

"No, and he's not going to let us take Polyjuice Potion," said Hermione, offering Kingsley a hand. Kingsley shifted his position on the skeletal horse and told her not to worry about the journey. Bill joined his fiancée. "He's the hero." 

"She's right," said Ron and Remus together. 

Alastor paced back and forth and stared at the night sky. Three minutes to go. He couldn't exactly craft a new plan. The boy was stubborn. If Alastor had to restrain the boy for his own good, he had no qualms about it. When everyone else was ready, he grabbed his broom. He was riding with Fred or George. Before he mounted the broom properly, he strapped the rucksacks onto it and Lenore grabbed him and locked him in a kiss. Fred, George, Ron, and Mundungus sniggered. When they broke apart, he patted her hair and kissed her good night.

Alastor fed her the usual line. "Don't wait up for me, Lenore." 

"I won't," she lied. 

Alastor patted her on the cheek and mounted the broom. Remus always worked as the countdown. As he kicked off the ground, knocking a giggling Fred in the back of the head, he saluted Lenore and followed Kingsley's thestral into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I guess this works as more of an epilogue as this is shorter. It kind of had to be. The cellist from the Weird Sisters makes an appearance here because I thought that would be cool. Well, he's mentioned. I realized if I was respecting Goblet of Fire , I might as well go for it, right? 
> 
> Anyway, Hope you enjoyed it. Let me know what you think. Thanks for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> When I initially wrote this, I was going to have the female character be Rosmerta. And then Lenore James popped into my head. Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody is a difficult character to write. I imagine this was even so for JKR. He's one of the best characters within in the series. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, I hope you liked it, And I hope I didn't ruin an awesome character. Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.


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